


Sherlock Is Actually a Cat Person

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A person who has a problem with cats, Catlock?, Cats, Crack, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sherlock is not a cat though, When I say "problem"..., he's a person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John brings home a kitten. Sherlock is not okay with it.<br/><em></em><br/>John was going to find out. Sherlock didn't know how, but it was inevitable if there was a cat in the flat. Of all the things in Sherlock's checkered past, his reaction to cats was possibly the only thing that shamed him, mostly because he had no control over it. "It's not staying," he announced, and spun around so John couldn't see him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock paused in the doorway to the kitchen. He'd only ventured out of his room because he'd heard John come home from work and wanted to see if he'd brought any biscuits or sweets back with him. But instead John was crouched down on the kitchen floor with—"What is that?"

John looked up from the tin of food he was parceling out into a small dish and gave a crooked grin, the one that usually made Sherlock feel warm and secure inside. "It's a cat, Sherlock. Did you delete cats?"

If only it were that easy. Sherlock drew his dressing gown around his waist, though it made a poor enough shield. "Yes, obviously it is a cat. What is it doing in our flat?" 

John scraped a little more of the appalling-looking food mass into the bowl on the floor; the cat seemed more interested in pawing at the fork he was using than eating any of it. "One of the nurses had to give her up," John said. "Her little boy is allergic, so I figured I'd help her out and give her a new home."

"So you're looking for a home for it?" Sherlock almost let himself relax for a moment.

"No, I'm going to keep her. Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind."

"Oh, you asked for Mrs. Hudson's opinion but not mine?" 

"Well, she does own this flat. But I convinced her this little girl couldn't make any more of a mess than you do."

Sherlock pursed his lips and glared, but John was too caught up in the animal next to him to notice. It looked like it was only half-grown: a scrawny ball of orange fuzz that was too stupid to eat the food in front of it and just wanted to climb into John's lap. Well, that urge was certainly understandable, but— Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter and swept through the kitchen into the sitting room, flopping onto the sofa. "That animal is not the only one here who needs to be fed," he called out.

"So order something. Not Italian—I can still smell the garlic breath from my last patient today."

Sherlock turned onto his side so he was facing the back of the sofa and waited. John must be hungry, too; a kitten wouldn't entertain him for long. Soon enough the little creature would run away and hide behind the curtains or in a cupboard or under someone's bed. He inhaled sharply at the thought. "John!"

He heard John stand up and walk through the flat towards him, not quickly enough—clearly the kitten was still distracting him. Sherlock sighed and considered his options. Probably the best would be to just flat-out refuse to let the animal stay. He didn't need to give a reason; he could just say no.

John stopped next to the sofa; Sherlock didn't give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him. "I want chips," he said and then a small weight dropped onto his ribcage, four tiny points of pressure and heat, still for a moment and then skittering down his stomach to land between him and the back of the sofa. Sherlock shouted and bounced to his feet; the cat froze, drawing itself into a shuddering ball against the leather cushions.

"Sherlock, are you afraid of cats?" John crossed his arms and tipped his head, watching Sherlock, who was, in fact, horrified by the cat. But not because he was afraid of it.

"I—I'm a dog person," he said, when he realized John actually thought a three-pound bundle of fur was frightening him.

"You are not," John said.

"Yes, I am." He glanced at John so he could read the sincerity in Sherlock's expression, but then quickly returned to watching the cat, who had apparently decided Sherlock was no threat and started to groom itself. "I had a dog as a child. Redbeard. Cared for him very deeply."

"Okay, fine, you had a dog you loved. Didn't we all?" John sat down next to the kitten and started to stroke it. Sherlock swallowed. "But that doesn't mean you're not a cat person," John continued. "You're the cattiest cat person I've ever met. Quite possibly you're a cat yourself."

John's imbecilic statement helped Sherlock focus. "You are not making any sense, John. I am nothing like a cat." 

John laughed. "Shall I make a list for you?" he said, and then turned his attention back to the cat, who was starting to purr beneath John's ministrations. Oh, God. This was unbearable.

Sherlock stuck both hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and took a step backward, away from the sofa. "You've never heard me purr, have you?" he muttered, and then when John looked up at him, a puzzled expression on his face, Sherlock panicked. John was going to find out. He didn't know how, but it was inevitable if there was a cat in the flat. Of all the things in Sherlock's checkered past, his reaction to cats was possibly the only thing that shamed him, mostly because he had no control over it. "It's not staying," he announced, and spun around so John couldn't see him anymore.

"Yes, she is," John said. "Her name is Violet, by the way."

"Horrible name!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder as he strode out of the room. "Animals shouldn't be given human names."

"I didn't name her. Anyway, your name isn't exactly identifiably human." 

"There's nothing wrong with my name!" he shouted back, and then slammed his way into the loo, locking the door behind him. A shower, he needed a shower, and then maybe he could try again to make John see reason. There would be no cats at Baker Street, not while Sherlock lived here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed) for naming the cat. Even though cats shouldn't have people names. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock emerged from the shower with four strong arguments as to why John could not keep the cat. No, five: if he inhaled a bit of black pepper he could mimic an allergy. 

He hadn't thought to grab any clean clothes beforehand, so he stepped naked out of the bathroom into his bedroom, grateful for the connecting door. The cat was on his bed. She was asleep in almost the exact center of the mattress, curled into a ball, tail covering her nose. The cat was on his bed. Sherlock stared for a moment, then fled back into the loo.

He threw on the clothes he had worn earlier, making sure to tie the belt on the dressing gown so he was fully covered, and then strode out into the sitting room to yell at John. "That cat is in my room!"

"So? You're not allergic. I know you're not allergic." John didn't even bother looking up from his phone.

"On my bed!"

Now John lifted his gaze. "Did she throw up again? Sorry. I think I need to try a different brand of food."

"No, she didn't—" He paused, filing vomit away as a new argument against keeping the animal. "John, I came out of the shower and she was curled up on my bed! I was naked!" 

"So?" John frowned up at him. "You know she's just an animal, right? She's not going to turn into McGonagall or something."

"I—what?" Sometimes John liked to do that—start spouting nonsense words to try to derail Sherlock's logical train of thought.

John turned back to his phone. "Just a cat, Sherlock. She doesn't care if you're naked or clothed or a man or a woman or an alien from another planet, as long as you feed her and scoop her litter box and pet her when she wants you to."

"Rest assured, I will not be petting her." He realized he'd switched from "it" to "her" in referring to the creature; not good—that was one step closer to accepting her presence in the flat. _Its_ presence. "Remove it from my bed now. Please." 

John sighed and followed him down the hall. "I'll try to train her to sleep upstairs with me, but I can't make any promises. You'll just have to keep your door shut."

"I will. Get her—it—out." He stepped into his room and stood to the side so John could pass by. John shook his head but did as Sherlock asked, lifting the cat with one hand and gently plopping her down into the hall. Of course, the animal immediately ran back into the room, although this time she settled herself underneath the bed. "No!"

John made no move to get down on his knees and fetch her out again. Instead he put his hands on his hips and looked at Sherlock, as if he were the problem and not the little ball of fluffy terror. "Why are you so afraid of a little kitten?"

"I am not afraid of it. I am many times its size. I simply don't want it _in my room_."

John scowled at him and then sat down on Sherlock's bed. On Sherlock's bed. Which had a cat underneath it. Were they trying to kill him?

"She hasn't done anything to you."

"She's underneath my bed."

"Yes, I know that." John scooted back a little, brought his sock-covered feet up to sit cross-legged on the mattress. Oh, God. John on his bed was a thousand times worse and so much better than the cat being there. "Why is having a tiny kitten under your bed so upsetting to you?" He stared up at Sherlock, so curious and sincere that Sherlock knew he would crack. 

He swallowed and considered his options. Somehow John was able to tell that his opposition to the cat was not a simple, ordinary anti-feline objection. And John seemed to like the cat enough that he wouldn't easily part with her. But maybe if Sherlock told him the truth. Yes, that would work. There was no way John would make Sherlock live in close proximity to a cat if he knew the truth. He glanced down at the floor beneath his bed but couldn't see the kitten. Very well, then. The truth. He took three steps to cross the room and sat gingerly at the foot of the bed, wrapping his dressing gown tighter around his middle and keeping a healthy span of space between him and John. "I told you I had a dog as a child."

"Yes. Redbeard." John shifted sideways so he was facing Sherlock but Sherlock did not turn to meet his eyes.

"I had a dog, and Mycroft had a cat. Redbeard died when I was 11. When I was 12, Mycroft moved out of our parents' house for good, but the cat stayed. Mycroft's bedroom was larger than mine, so I moved into it. The cat came with the room—she seemed to like me well enough, and she would sit on the bed next to me and purr while I was reading or doing my homework. That was when I was 12."

"Yes, you said that."

"So then I turned 13."

John was exceptionally slow; sometimes Sherlock still forgot. He sighed and went on. "I turned 13 and suddenly began to experience certain ...urges."

John didn't say anything, though it was now too late to turn back.

"But the cat was always in my bed! I would chase her out of the room, but as soon as I lay back down and started to get...preoccupied, she'd be scratching at the door, wanting to be let back in. Finally I just gave up and let her stay while I was...occupying myself."

He risked a glance to see if John had caught on yet; John looked a bit horrified. "You didn't...do anything to the cat, did you?"

"What?" Sherlock grimaced. "Of course not, how would that even work? No. I just...behaved in the manner of a typical teenaged boy while she sat on my bed and purred." He paused, then added. "Sometimes I did pet her with my free hand. I tried not to, but she would ram her head into me if I didn't and it was very distracting."

John stared at him for several long moments and Sherlock sat still and tried to pretend this was a perfectly normal discussion and he was not blushing. He hoped that he wouldn't have to spell it out any further, and was relieved when John picked up the narrative for him. "So, you spent your formative years masturbating to the sound of a cat purring, which means now, when you hear a cat purr...."

Sherlock tipped his chin up and studied the wallpaper across the room. The second seam from the left above the window was peeling. But at least now John would understand why they couldn't keep the cat. She was still a kitten; the local shelter should have no problem finding a home for her.

"I'm going to blame Mycroft for this one," John said.

"What?" Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at him. "God, no. Please don't associate my brother with any sort of sexual response from me or anyone else, ever."

John smiled at him; Sherlock was amazed that he hadn't laughed out loud at his confession. He was still horribly embarrassed but at least the conversation was over. "So now you know why she can't stay here. I'm sorry. You can get a dog if you'd like."

"What? No, Sherlock. I'm keeping Violet."

Sherlock let his jaw drop, seeing no benefit to hiding his surprise. "But I just explained why—"

"You did just explain, and I appreciate that it wasn't easy for you to share. But I want to keep the kitten, and your problem—well, let's just say that it's something I think you can overcome."

"But I don't want to have to overcome it when I can just avoid it entirely. Get rid of the cat."

"Nope. Sorry. But I've got a few ideas on how to help you, hmm? Trust me on this one." John stood up, took a step toward the end of the bed, patted Sherlock once on the lower thigh and then dropped down to his knees to peer under the bed. Sherlock shied away, drawing his feet and legs up. The only comment John made was, "You should sweep in here more often." Sherlock watched him reach under the bed and pull out the kitten. "There you are, little girl. Let's go get your litter box set up, all right?" He settled the cat against his shoulder, grinned at Sherlock and then left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Sherlock wondered if he really heard the cat begin to purr as they left, or if it was just his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: I posted this chapter and not 10 minutes later my daughter came out of the bathroom and objected that the cat was looking at her when she didn't have any pants on. (Um, by pants I mean trousers.)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stayed in his room out of spite until the smell of dinner cooking became too strong to resist. He ventured out to find John making curry as the cat sat on the kitchen table. Sherlock glared at her and she jumped down and wandered out of the room. Sherlock wasn't sure if he could count it as a victory or if it was just a coincidence in timing. He turned to regard John instead. "I said I wanted chips."

"So go buy some."

Sherlock sniffed and settled for John's offering instead. They sat next to each other on the sofa and ate in silence, Sherlock hoping that John's usual obsession with food made him forget the embarrassing confession he had witnessed earlier. The cat did not seem interested in vegetarian curry, but she did stay in the room with them, which set Sherlock's nerves on edge. As he finished the last few bites of his dinner Violet sauntered over to the coffee table, put her front paws on it, bobbed her head once and then jumped up. She walked back and forth over the collection of papers that was gathered on the table and then flopped to her side and began to purr.

"That's it!" Sherlock slammed his dish onto the end table. "Either the cat leaves or I do. Make a choice."

John laughed—not the correct reaction at all. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "This is not funny. I told you—"

"Yeah, I know what you told me." John set his plate down on the coffee table and shooed the cat off of it. "It's okay."

"It is not okay. It's a hindrance to daily life. I can't have a cat in this flat, John."

John nodded. "I can see how it's a problem, yes. But I think we can fix it. We just need to replace the association with another one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because what I really need are two random triggers for inappropriate arousal." He pulled at his dressing gown—he'd forgotten to belt it this time—and stood up to leave.

"Wait." John's hand clamped down firmly on his wrist, stopping him. "Sit down. We're going to figure this out."

"There's nothing to figure out. There's just—" He gestured with his free hand at the obvious bulge in his trousers.

"Sit down," John repeated, and tugged at his arm, not enough to actually force him to sit, but Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa anyway, resigned to the fact that now that John knew about his little problem, he was going to want to try to solve it, probably with some sort of cognitive behavior therapy, even though he was a medical doctor and completely unqualified to do so. Maybe Sherlock could get him to prescribe a drug instead. Something to suppress his libido—it wasn't as if he needed it anyway. He'd thought, once, maybe he would, that maybe John could see him as more than a flatmate, but now.... The little flickers of interest that he thought he occasionally caught from John had no doubt been extinguished the moment Sherlock had opened his mouth and admitted his stupid cat problem. He let his head fall back against the sofa cushion and waited for his erection to go away.

"All right," John said and turned sideways so he was facing Sherlock. "Now listen to me."

Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye, not bothering to lift his head. "I'm not really interested in a psychotherapy session at the moment," he said.

"Not what I had in mind," John said, and licked his lips. Sherlock pinched his eyes shut; John's tongue did not help the problem. John didn't seem to notice; he just kept talking. "What if, instead of a cat's purr, your, erm, arousal was linked to something that's a more typical trigger?" He paused and then said in a much softer voice, "Say, maybe, kissing?"

Kissing. Did he mean? Sherlock swallowed and opened his eyes. John stared back at him, eyebrows raised and head tilted in a clear question. _Yes_. Wait, really? Did he really mean? Sherlock blinked and John was suddenly much closer to him, his face inches away, still with that same questioning look. "Sherlock?" he asked, and licked his lips once more.

"Yes." Sherlock was certain he said it out loud this time. He pushed away from the back of the sofa, leaning toward John and then they were kissing, lips slightly parted and breath warm, John's fingers catching Sherlock's curls and Sherlock's mind trying to speed up and freeze at the same time. When it was over, John pulled away slightly and Sherlock brought his hand up to wipe at his lips, amazed. "John. I. We— You?"

John chuckled. "You. I never thought.... Until today, when you actually admitted you had urges." 

"You are quite possibly the least observant man I have ever encountered," Sherlock said, then added, "The cat is still watching us."

John glanced over at Violet, who was perched on the desk, on the keyboard of Sherlock's laptop. He shrugged and turned back to Sherlock. "So maybe we should—"

"Yes," said Sherlock, and shifted his hips toward John. John smiled and then somehow Sherlock's trousers were unzipped and then so were John's and apparently John's body had had the same reaction to the kiss as Sherlock's, and then John's hands were on them both, intensifying the situation.

This was not at all what Sherlock had expected when he'd told John about his issues with cats. He freed himself from his pants and let John take charge, torn between watching John's fingers move and closing his eyes so he could let the sensation envelop him. When he could no longer hold off his climax he looked not at John's hand but at his face, at the creases of concentration on his brow, at the squint of his eyes as his gaze darted back and forth between the two of them, at the tip of his tongue where it poked from between his lips. Sherlock made a noise that he hoped wasn't too embarrassing and bucked into John's hand, physical, mental and emotional relief flooding through him, beyond his control.

John's hand stopped moving and cradled him for a moment, then swiped up along his length and let go. Sherlock gasped at the loss of contact and then watched as John put both hands on himself; the image and idea of John using Sherlock's ejaculate to finish himself off was almost more than he could bear.

John groaned and shuddered and tipped forward, panting heavily; Sherlock caught him by the shoulders and eased him to the side to lean against the back of the sofa. Once he had caught his breath, John grinned and raised his sticky hands. "Need to—"

"Yes. Here, let me." Sherlock reached out to tuck John back into his pants and zip his trousers for him, marveling at the fact that he was allowed to touch.

"Thanks." John slid off the cushion onto his feet and stepped around the coffee table. 

Sherlock glanced up to see the cat still perched on the desk, watching them. He waited until John took a step away before saying, "It didn't work."

"What?" John spun on his heel to face Sherlock again. "Don't give me that. It worked all over my hands." 

"No. I'm sorry, but I don't think you can change an established association that quickly, especially one formed in adolescence." He sighed and pursed his lips, lifting his head to meet John's worried gaze. "If you're serious about helping me, I think it's going to be something we have to work on long-term."

There was a second of silence and then John laughed. "Yeah, all right. I'm willing if you are." He turned around again and trotted off toward the kitchen, pausing only once to call over his shoulder, "But we're keeping the cat, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and smiled. Maybe he could learn to live with it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [MissDavisWrites](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


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